Of Air and Angels
by Dragonbait
Summary: They had been gods, when they were first in their infancy, and over time, they had stopped evolving into the creatures that protected the warriors in battle. Chapter Seven has been added as of 08/2010.
1. Chapter I: As twixt angel's air

**Of Air and Angels  
**

**By Dragonbait**

**Chapter One**

_There was a Door to which I found no Key:_

_There was a Veil past which I could not see  
_- Edward Fitzgerald

**«--»•«--»**

Quistis liked a good cup of coffee and a book more than anything. Stirring her coffee idly, she turned the page, eagerly absorbing the words. In the clear sunshine of an outside café in Esthar she sat. It was lunchtime. The café was like a second home to her away from her quarters in the residences. Ten years she had lived in Esthar, and for not the first time, she wondered why she had not moved there sooner. Eleven years had passed since they had vanquished Ultimecia and prevented time compression. They had been honoured with medals, pinned to their lapels, worn with pride. Quistis did not feel as though she had deserved her medals—she had not played a large part in the war. They had been hailed as conquering heroes, but Quistis felt that the world made too big a deal of heroes who had been hired to do the job. She had simply followed orders—defeat Ultimecia in her time and bring peace back to the present day. Ten years ago Quistis packed her bags, and left Garden. Her life there was over. She had left behind her quarters, her friends, her family, and gone abroad to face a new life. Esthar had become her home.

Quistis had her own, private reasons for leaving Balamb. She packed everything she owned into a compact suitcase, handed over her SeeD qualifications and walked out. For sentimental purposes, Quistis had kept a uniform and her whip, praying that she'd never have to crack it again. The blue magic of her trade—the thing that made her valuable to any scrupulous or unscrupulous person—could not be taken from her. But there were more reasons as to why she had left—aside from those personal ones. She had felt a tremendous amount of guilt when she presided on the disciplinary and war crimes tribunal of Balamb Garden and Others versus Seifer Almasy and Galbadia Garden. As a person who had observed Seifer's behaviour over the years, and her knowledge of who he was and what he had done, she felt as though they had coerced her, twisting her words around so that it looked like she had single-handedly condemned Seifer to ten long years in solitary confinement. It wasn't only that which had caused her to hand in her license.

Quistis felt that these events were enough to make anyone question the true purpose of SeeD. They were meant to be a group dedicated to fighting the sorceress, but to her, after Seifer's unfair trial, it seemed they had a much more sinister side. She left Garden. Her instructor's license had been revoked, as the garden masters did not believe that she was fit to teach, despite Squall's intervention on her behalf. There was nothing left for her in Balamb. She packed her bags, and went travelling.

She settled in Timber, helping the resistance factions drive out the invading and marauding Galbadian soldiers. On the last day of the official occupation of Timber, Quistis had been appointed president. It was an honour she had not dreamed of. For five years, she worked closely with Timber's residents, establishing diplomatic ties throughout the world. SeeD had prepared her for negotiations, and with each passing parliamentary act, she felt that Galbadia, should they ever invade Timber again, would be in for a rude awakening. Five years after first arriving in Timber, she left. She'd been many things in her twenty-four years—a SeeD, an instructor and a president. Some would argue that twenty-three years of life experience did not a president make, though it was her detractors who said that about her.

It had been a world away from when she was a child. As a child, she arrived on the doorstep of Edea's orphanage by the sea, wearing the same garments from the night her parents had been murdered before her very eyes. The use of the Guardian Forces had all but wiped her memory of such events, and she had been grateful for that. After leaving Timber, Quistis travelled north, to the tundra of Shumi Village. There, she had learned how to live again. At twenty five, some eighteen months after her exodus from Timber, and another nine months, Quistis met the man who would father her child. She had known him for years, though they never spoke of the night they had shared, and the child that had resulted from that glorious, one-night stand. A daughter was born to her nine months later, and she called the child Síla.

When Síla was seven months old, Quistis once more packed her bags, wrapping Síla securely in the wraps the Shumi had taught her to use, and moved to Esthar. Applying for a job with Esthar's elite defence units, Quistis received word, barely two days later, that she had it. There was no other candidate, they had said, with such outstanding credentials. Pushing the doubts, niggling or otherwise, out of her mind that Laguna had something to do with her getting the job, she settled into a peaceful life with her daughter in the residences of Esthar. She learned the ropes well, making friends and networking with some of the most powerful and influential people in Esthar. She ignored the thoughts that cropped up from time to time, about companionship, dating—she didn't want to. Síla was her focus, aside from her job. She was happy.

On a particularly sunny Monday afternoon, at roughly thirteen hundred hours, Quistis was sipping her café latte and reading a biography. It was her lunch hour, and the little café where she lunched was known as one of the best in Esthar—called Stellar. The café had been established shortly before the Lunar Cry, the menu was good, the prices reasonable, and the food—well, Quistis would be lying if she said she'd never tasted anything as good as their Gyashi Pesto and Garlic Bread. It was a veritable cornucopia of taste. Then, she frowned. A shadow had fallen across her table. Looking up, she saw President Loire, who looked like he was relieved to find her.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Laguna?" she enquired, marking her page as Laguna sat. He looked careworn. There were flecks of grey now showing in his dark hair, his face lined. "Please, take a seat," she invited, and watched as the older man sat. He smiled, and a waitress came by, clearing the table and taking an order from Laguna for a cup of green tea. The stuff was good, Laguna thought. He mulled over the various events of the day, his mind sifting through them, trying to remember what it was that he wanted to tell Quistis. She might just be interested in hearing this titbit of news, after all.

"Seifer Almasy was released a week ago. He's been offered asylum here in Esthar—Galbadia doesn't want him, the Gardens refuse anything to do with him, and so Esthar naturally fell to the task of giving him a chance at normality-- or as normal as it can be after incarceration." He scratched the back of his head, shrugging. The waitress came back with the tea, and Laguna took a sip. He had done a lot of negotiation for Seifer to live in Esthar; Cid and Edea, though fond of Seifer they were could not afford a loose canon in Garden, and Galbadia had signed papers that made him a marked man should he ever set foot in Deling City again. The man had been ready to destroy the world on the whim of a sorceress far in the future, and Galbadia did not wish to risk the tentative peace they had built in the intervening years. But Laguna believed that no matter how badly someone fucked up, they ought to be allowed a second chance. And Hyne knew he'd been given many of those. Even someone like Seifer Almasy deserved a chance to prove that he'd changed. Laguna believed that. Hell, he'd even offered Seifer a chance to work for him—just to prove that he could and had changed. Scratching his head with the hand not holding the cigarette, Laguna studied Quistis' face for any signs of change. It was an interesting face to study, Laguna had to admit. The years outside of a military institution had softened Quistis, as had having a daughter. She was still beautiful, though. Laguna adored Síla and loved her like his own flesh and blood.

Quistis's eyebrows rose in mild surprise. "It's been a long time since I last saw him," she stated simply, remembering him as he was that day in the stand. He had looked so young then. "I hope he's doing well. What are the terms of Esthar's custody?"

Laguna waved his arm in a dismissive manner. "The plan is simple, really. Ward's going to supervise his return to civilian life and help him assimilate better. He's got a distinctive fighting style, so the army's out, really. But we figure that once he's settled in, we might use his fighting to our advantage—the distinctive style will have to go, though." He glanced at his watch and his eyes widened in alarm. "I've gotta get back." He winced, thinking of the lessons in absurd theatre that his parliament seemed hell-bent on playing out. "Parliament is crazy. Stepped out in the middle of a debate for a cigarette and some air."

Quistis nodded politely, a faraway smile on her face. It would be good to see her old friend. She could still remember the days when they had planned their future out together, each of them lying on their bellies in the long summer grass. But those memories were tainted with sour taste, as other memories pervaded and took out the brightness as he joined with Fujin and Raijin. She could remember the scorn in his voice as he spoke harsh words, ending what they had once had. She knew, on an intellectual level, that he was right. She couldn't be seen dating her student, and Seifer was head of the disciplinary committee. . He was a gallant man, admittedly, yet he was also reckless—which had cost him the one thing he'd dreamed about: being a SeeD. It might've been not-so-romantic as his real dream of being the Sorceress's Knight, but it'd been a dream of Seifer's nonetheless.

Knighthood was something he had talked about for years. When he broke out of the detention room, he had taken nothing but his gunblade and his pride along with him. Quistis had been forced to chase him all the way to Timber. She remembered watching, frozen and powerless, as he joined forces with the Sorceress. Later, she'd had the misfortune of being taunted by him in their showdown at Galbadia Garden, the taunt ringing in her ears: _"Instructor Trepe, I'm still one of your dearest students, aren't I?"_

"_Not anymore," _she'd replied tartly, brandishing her whip. Then she'd cracked it at him. They'd defeated him soundly, facing Edea next. For all his taunts, Quistis couldn't shake from her mind the haunted look on his face—he had nothing to lose.

Laguna sighed, watching the emotions that flickered across Quistis' face, watching the way she played with the strands of hair in front of her eyes, the faraway look on her face. It seemed as though she was remembering something. Stubbing his cigarette out, Laguna stood, making his way to her side to pat her on the shoulder. "I'll be in my office, hiding," he said with an attempt at levity.

Finishing her coffee, Quistis hurried to pay at the counter. Passing through the markets on her way back to the office, she smiled softly. She reached into her pocket for her security pass, swiping it through the magnetic scanner. Waiting for the boom-gate to open, she fumbled in her bag for her lanyard with her other office keys. Reaching her office, she opened the door and flipped the switch. Artificial sunlight streamed in overhead, and a glint on her desk caught her eye. Flowers.

It was a small bouquet in a simple glass vase. The messy scrawl of her name on the card, she noted, was familiar, though she couldn't quite place it. The poetry on the inside made her shake her head—such corny and simple sentiment. It was the handwriting, more than anything, which made her eyes wet, and the words blurred. Hastily wiping the tears away, Quistis searched for a name, anything to help her identify the sender. _Seifer._ The name itself made her remember things.

It reminded her of days spent at Garden, before the bullshit with Seifer's ambitions had started, before anything like another Sorceress War was on the horizon. Her hands shook as she sniffled and reached for a tissue and they shook as she blew her nose. Her entire body seemed to have gone into a state of disbelief and shock. Having calmed down sufficiently, Quistis searched the room briefly, noting the cupboard where she kept a fold-out bed was ajar. Pulling it open, she noticed a man staring at her with familiar eyes, and a distinctive scar. The emaciated figure spoke and it was confirmed; Seifer Almasy. In the flesh. In her office. Hiding in her cupboard with some child's delight at finding a hiding spot that no-one would find.

"Hello, Quistis," he said.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_Thank you to Ms Starlight for the beta-reading and corrections. As always, your input is valued and appreciated. For those of you who think this story is familiar, it's a rewrite of a story written five years earlier and by three authors. I am Quis, therefore, this should not be taken as plagiarism.  
_


	2. Chapter II: Memories are hunting horns

Meeting Love, Finding Despair

**Of Air and Angels**

**By Dragonbait**

**Chapter Two**

_Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies away in the wind_

-- Guillaume Apollinaire

**«--»•«--»**

The woman outside President Loire's office sighed, smoothing her skirt over her knees. Her hands fidgeted with her hair, twirling strands around her fingers idly, in nervous habit. She wasn't accustomed to waiting, not after several years in a very high-powered job. Anisa Armanti, at the age of thirty five, had become the President of Timber. Following on from Quistis's lead, Anisa had continued her popular predecessor's work—strengthening the alliances that Timber had forged with the powerful military city of Esthar. As such, it was one of the days when she was away from her country, away from the hue and cry of the populace of Timber. Shortly after the Third Sorceress War, Anisa had assisted Quistis with the formation of the Republic of Timber. And now, she, Anisa was president. She, the darkie, the one that'd faced prejudice because of the colour of her skin, was a president of a good, well-run country.

A soft cough alerted Anisa to the presence of another being in the room with her. She glanced up, seeing a familiar face, and she smiled warmly. After all, she did like Kiros. "Anisa, Laguna's ready to see you now," he said, his voice warm and deep. It was one of those voices she enjoyed hearing a lot of, melodious to her ears. It reminded Anisa of her brother, Baha's voice on a good day. Baha always made her smile, and so did Kiros. Anisa stood, smoothing her skirt down and adjusting her handbag as she did so. Kiros opened the door, holding his arm out to indicate that she ought to go in first. After Anisa passed through the door, Kiros closed it discretely behind her. Sitting down, Kiros and Anisa waited patiently for Laguna.

It didn't take long for Laguna to arrive, a little girl following after him with her thumb in her mouth and clutching a teddy. (Well, it wasn't a teddy, in all actuality—it was a Moomba plushie, but before we go on it needed clarification.) Anisa quirked an eyebrow but held her tongue, knowing that it wasn't the best time or place to question why Laguna Loire was allowing a little girl to listen to political debates. Kiros said nothing, but carefully took Síla by the hand and led her out of the office. He led her down into Ellone's rooms, where the dark-haired woman smiled at both of them, and swiftly took over the care of Síla.

"It's a pleasure to see you, Anisa," Laguna began, smiling as he reached across to kiss Anisa's cheek in greeting. "How are you keeping?" Anisa smiled.

"I'm well, and it's also a pleasure to see you, too," Anisa replied formally, her voice tinted with a bit of an accent that was soft and melodious. It was a curious accent, soft and sweet. To Laguna, it reminded him of Raine's accent, the one from Winhill. The dialectic patterns were similar, too, he remembered. But very few people knew that Winhill and Timber shared a dialect; most just spoke the standard language and completely forgot about the whole accent issue. But again, Laguna was digressing from the subject at hand. He tended to do that a lot, go off on tangents entirely unrelated to the subject, yet somehow, he always seemed to remember the original subject of whatever he was talking about.

**«--»•«--»**

Quistis pursed her lips, thinking deeply. A finger reached out to twirl a strand of her hair around her finger out of nervous habit and uncertainty. Just _what_ was Seifer Almasy doing in her office, and more importantly, _how_ had he found out where her office was? Oh, sure, she could think of several reasons why he could've found it, but she wanted to know straight from the Shumi's mouth as they said in these parts. Or rather, from the region of Trabia—but it was still the same thing, really. "You— you," she began, "How did you get access to my office?"

With an irritating smirk that hadn't changed with incarceration, Seifer replied caustically. "I followed a sign, _Trepe_." Duh. Of course he'd followed the bloody signs—it wasn't that difficult to find her office. Then again, he did know her habits. Boring little Quisty, with her prim and proper hairdo and manners. He let his eyes roam over her face, down her neckline, down to her pert breasts. He had to admit it, she was hot. And a cheeky smile crossed his face as he spoke, "If you didn't want me to come see you, why, then, did you make it painfully obvious where your office was?" He pulled off one of his gloves with a sigh, looking at her again.

"Get out of my office, Seifer, before I call security," Quistis demanded, her eyes flashing towards the door and then back to Seifer. The look on her face was void of emotion. It was her typical icy look that Seifer knew so well. Even though he knew she could be icy, he also knew that there was far more to her than that. He'd seen it himself, many times over, the exasperated look cross her face. The same look that she'd given him after the scar on his nose had occurred, how he'd been kept back after class to discuss the ramifications of his actions. She'd warned him then that his temper could get the better of him, if he wasn't careful. He'd scoffed at her well-meant words, thinking she was nothing but a meddlesome troublemaker.

Calmly, Seifer shrugged. "How about no? Not until you hear what I have to say," he said coldly. "And please, hear me out before you make any hasty decisions." He was imposing as ever, even with the shrunken frame from the years of incarceration. Quistis let her eyes wander over his body discretely, noting that he was actually not all that bad looking, not that she'd ever tell him that. Seifer looked over at her, smirking to himself as she tried to hide the fact that she was staring at him. But he wouldn't say anything for now—if anything, he'd keep quiet.

Quistis sighed. He had a point, she had to concede, that she really ought to listen to him before throwing him out of her office. She motioned that he could sit down, and waited until he did so before she herself sat. It was a rather comfortable office chair that she had, all soft and supportive. Sitting straight-backed, from years of military routine, Quistis effortlessly picked up a pen and began doodling on the pad in front of her as she waited for Seifer to speak. "So, Seifer, speak," she said simply. She needed a coffee, but she'd just had lunch moments ago before coming back to her office. The light-headed feeling that she had was not good, and it probably meant that she was low on glucose—never a good thing.

Seifer looked at her levelly, looking her in the eye. He held her gaze unwaveringly for a moment before she broke it, and he then played with the cuff of his sleeve. "Do you want the full story? Or the abridged version? I'm happy to give you either version—but it's up to you, _Instructor_," he said, the last word coming out more venomous than he'd intended. Old habits, it seemed, died hard with Seifer Almasy. It equally infuriated and amused him that the simple title of _instructor_, when paired with the woman in front of him, would not leave him be. It was definitely a derogatory word on his lips—or it had been years ago—but on the lips of others, it was a mark of respect. He knew that, just as Quistis did.

"I have all afternoon, so please, humour me with the full version," Quistis replied with the barest ghost of a smile playing on her lips. She was remembering an incident, some thirteen years ago now, that had suddenly sparked in her mind at the name _instructor_ being used by Seifer.

**«--»•«--»**

_It was her first day as an instructor. She was incredibly nervous, and the familiar fluttering of butterflies in her stomach made her want to back out, to run to the bathroom, to do anything except stand up and teach a class of students barely older than herself. Some of them, she was sure, were bound to be disrespectful—thinking they could get away with things just because she was young and this was the first __**real**__ lesson she'd ever taught. Quistis bit her cheek, taking a deep breath before slipping her glasses on. Her uniform was impeccably presented, as usual—it was one aspect of her grooming she took especial care with. Mustering up enough courage, Quistis stepped confidently into the classroom and stood behind the desk, syllabus in her hand._

_Shortly, the students filed in, and the lesson began smoothly. The peace, however, and smoothness of the class, did not last for long. Seifer Almasy and Squall Leonhart—both brilliant students in their own way, rivals and it was rumoured that the two of them had been bedfellows more than once—but Quistis had dismissed that as just cafeteria gossip. It'd begun innocently enough, with Squall trying to do his work and Seifer apparently pestering him and not doing his own work._

_She did what was the recommended course of action described by the __Instructor's Manual__, remembering that it was a godsend in times like these. "Mr Almasy, do you care to share with the rest of the class what's so important that you're interrupting Mr Leonhart's work?" she called out acerbically, a very small hint of amusement could also be detected in her voice._

_The blonde troublemaker flipped her the birdie. Her mouth tightened in a scowl. "Detention."_

…_and that detention had proved far more interesting than she ever would've expected. Flushed and satiated, she'd hurried back to her dormitory, leaving an equally-satiated Seifer to wander back to his own dormitory. And thus they became lovers in secret._

_It lasted until Squall Leonhart ended up in the infirmary with an injury to the head after training. Seifer had all but passed the SeeD exam, but he'd repeatedly failed due to his reluctance to follow orders and procedure. Quistis despaired of him._

_Following that, they'd been at one another's throats. That day in the Disciplinary Room just prior to Squall and his squad going off to assist the Timber Owls, Seifer had nearly raised a hand against her. He'd had a hissy fit, and stormed off, taking only Hyperion and his shredded dignity._

**«--»•«--»**

He looked at her, watching as she gazed into the distance behind his head that he was sure was oh-s0-fucking _fascinating_. Much more so than him. It irked him, drove him crazy. She was supposed to be paying _him_ attention, not the fucking wall! "I suppose you could say that the years in prison were years I spent thinking about all the fucking misdeeds I did during the war, couldn't you?" he smiled sardonically. "Truth is, it wasn't far from the truth. Ultimecia… she was a fucking mind-trip, you know? Like I'd been tripping on acid or some other illegal substance that fucks with your mind. It took me six years to stop my mind going back over that fucked-up year, I almost went mad."

There was a slight hint of shock registering in Quistis's eyes and in the way her jaw was set. To her shock, she hadn't expected Seifer to be this forthcoming about his experiences as the knight to the sorceress. Hadn't Headmaster Cid explained that without a knight, a sorceress could become evil and would perhaps have to be killed by SeeD in every generation—the true purpose of SeeD had been revealed when all hell broke loose in the War. So Ultimecia, ultimately, was a tragic figure—she had no knight loyal and true, except for one that existed only in a time-compressed universe. Seifer had been her knight in that universe, serving her through the woman that she possessed—none other than the woman Seifer called _mother_. If Sigmund Freud existed in this world and universe, he probably would've described Seifer as Oedipal. But the label didn't exist here, and thus it's probably a pointless narrative effort by the author trying to insert humour and classical references and psychoanalysis. These thoughts, however, were floating around in Quistis' brain, and thus she frowned. It seemed to her that Seifer had genuinely repented, a saved sinner, in some ways. If there was ever a redeemed man, she was certain she might be looking at him. "I don't know anything about that, Seifer," she said gently, looking down at her bare hands. She found that inspecting her nails was much more fascinating than looking at Seifer, and she had no clue as to why.

"Given the experience that I had during that hellish period of time," he continued as though Quistis hadn't spoken, "I'm getting a second chance to prove that I _can_ be of use, that I do know what I'm talking about, and that's a fucking miracle. Laguna, smart man, trusts people and believes in the redemptive power of a second chance—a chance to do things over. I learnt a lot when I was in prison—a whole fucking lot—about things like that. Ten years in the clinker leads to a lot of thought, it also leads to a lot of unmentionable things that I'd rather you didn't know about," Seifer shuddered at the memories of prison, of being in solitary due to fights that he'd foolishly provoked, trying to prove that he was a tough man. Of course, that'd been in the first year of his incarceration. Throughout the other nine years, Seifer had read a lot. Unlike the cliché of finding that there _was_ indeed a god, Seifer had long discovered that there was no god, nothing but a big void of existentialistic thought. The questions had plagued him—why were some men hailed as heroes and others, like him, branded as criminals and shackled against the wall as though they were rampaging mass murderers. Existentialism wasn't something Seifer had ever thought about before being imprisoned. But in the end, Seifer had realised that he'd needed this time—this prison sentence—to bring him back to who he had been before Ultimecia had destroyed a part of his soul.

Quistis, again, said nothing. Pursing her lips in thought, she silently admitted that he'd done a lot of thinking while in prison. Perhaps even more than she had in the ten years she'd not been a SeeD. The adverse affects of their reliance upon Guardian Forces was something that was still being charted, but Quistis knew she'd do _anything_ to retrieve some of the memories that they'd stolen from her. Memories, thoughts, feelings—everything was all as Ultimecia had said: _"Reflect on your childhood...your sensations, your words, your emotions." _Ultimately, the sorceress had been right. They all escaped Quistis and Seifer—hell, they escaped everyone who used the destructive power of the Guardian Forces. She appreciated that now, appreciated the bitter price every SeeD had to pay in exchange for their power.

**«--»•«--»**

Anisa, meanwhile, sat down on her bed in one of the guest suites. It'd been a long and frustrating day for her, politically, at least. On the personal side though, it'd been a good day and Kiros was taking her out for dinner. It seemed to happen whenever she arrived in Esthar, like a set pattern of a romance, in a way. Neither of them would ever admit that they were developing warm fuzzy feelings towards one another. It would be entirely unprofessional, and they were strictly friends. The dress that she'd packed with her hung now on a coat-hanger Her shoes and handbag, too, were ready to go. Quickly showering and changing, applying a very minimal layer of make-up, she was ready when the buzzer rang.

It seemed to her that Kiros, too, had given thought to their evening. Dressed rather sharply in a lovely-looking dark grey jacket, white shirt and matching dark grey trousers, he looked good. Unconsciously Anisa's eyes wandered his body, subconsciously undressing him. _Damn, Anisa, stop thinking of him like that, _she told herself sternly. It'd ruin things between them, both she and Kiros knew that. Simply smiling up at him, Anisa allowed him to wrap her shawl around her shoulders as she gathered her small clutch from the table. Then they were off.

The night was lovely, little stars peeked out from underneath clouds, the sky not yet entirely dark. The sun, very low on the horizon, gave the last rays of warmth from its dying descent down to the other side of the world, and they walked along the crowded, busy streets of Esthar. Dinner, dancing and wine were on the agenda tonight. No thoughts of politics, of schedules conflicting, of meetings gone awry. It would be a night of pleasure.


	3. Chapter III: I wanted to be Napoleon

Meeting Love, Finding Despair

**Of Air and Angels**

**By Dragonbait**

**Chapter Three**

_At the age of six I wanted to be a cook. At seven I wanted to be Napoleon. And my ambition has been growing steadily ever since._

-- Salvador Dali

**«--»•«--»**

Light softly filtered in through the white cotton curtains. It was early morning. Clothes were strewn about the room as though they'd been flung off haphazardly in a fit of passion. As the light hit their eyes, one of the figures stirred, and groggily, she sat up. Hissing in annoyance, she prodded Kiros in the side. The man stirred, mumbled something in his sleep, rolled over and went back to slumbering soundly, unaware of the growing annoyance of his bedfellow. Anisa yanked the flat sheet off Kiros, leaving the man beautifully naked and completely asleep. In the morning light, Kiros' beauty was something that made her catch her breath, before she wrapped the sheet around herself, quickly tidying up the suite before housekeeping came around to do the morning rounds.

"Kiros," she said, prodding him gently, and was rewarded with a grunt. "Kiros!" Her voice was urgent now; to her great relief, he opened his eyes with a groan. She put one hand on her hip in exasperation. "You need to leave… it's not seemly that we should be seen together by the staff—you know how they gossip."

Kiros sat up in bed, now fully awake. Anisa had a point, he had to admit. "But it's not their business who shares a bed or who's seen with who," he said lazily, with a little laugh.

Anisa glared at him, and he held up a placatory hand. "All right, say we're seen together by the staff… what're they going to do about it? Call the media and alert them to the fact that the president of Timber is sleeping with the president of Esthar's aide?"

Laughing slightly at the look on Anisa's face, Kiros scrambled off the bed, hastily searching for his underwear. Once he'd retrieved his outfit, Kiros left the room with a backwards glance at the incredibly beautiful woman he'd spent the night with.

**«--»•****«****--»**

Grey eyes scanned the perimeter of the Estharian Presidential Palace. It'd been a while since the man had been to Esthar, let alone the palace. When he had been younger, he'd known Loire well—had been a brother-in-arms with him during the first Sorceress War back when both of them had been young and foolish. Now both of them were older men. Time had worn the man's face. He had been crippled by a roaming beast, far from its natural habitat, and he had been lucky to escape alive. His bones ached as he moved, but he was grateful for the years he'd had as a spry young lad. Luik Leonhart gripped the handle of his walking stick, moving towards the front gate of the palace. Laguna expected him.

To the left of him, he could see construction going on—the repairs, presumably, of the O-Lab. The last time Luik had been in Esthar, some five months previously, parts of the Odine Laboratories had been destroyed by a combination of glycerine and fire. Fatal. Utterly fatal—but thankfully there'd only been two or so people in there at the time. He walked slowly—there was no need to hurry. When one reached his age, there was no need to hurry. He took in the surrounds, glancing at the various cafés that'd sprung up over the years. Stellar, for instance, was renowned for it's well-made coffees and very nice lunches with high quality food, and Luik was a man who enjoyed his food. Though not a portly man, by any means, Luik _was_ slightly overweight, a result that came more from lack of exercise than diet.

Finally reaching the long boulevard that led to the Presidential Palace's parliamentary rooms, Luik gave a smile to one of the guards standing on duty. The guards' clothes, when he'd first chanced across them some long years ago, had seemed too flashy, too obscenely bright. Now, of course, he understood the reasoning behind such things. By night, Esthar was a city of silence, the lights on the vehicles dimmed in passing, the reflective uniforms of the soldiers that guarded the palace, and indeed, Esthar from the world, were an utter godsend in the dark, flashy as they were. It wasn't quiet today as the men and women hurried about their business and jabbering away on their phones—the chilly sun shining high overhead as Luik ambled down the passageway that led into Laguna's offices. He knew he'd be waiting for him—they'd had the appointment set in stone for months on end. Brothers in law, and yet not. Laguna had never officially _married_ his sister, Raine, the fact that his surname graced the simple plaque on the hill just outside Winhill made it all the more intricate. Raine and Laguna—now _there_ had been a couple who were as in love with one another as the day was in love with night—incomplete without each other, yet alone and destined to be solitary as the earth spun on its axis.

"I'm here to see President Loire," he told the young lass sitting at a desk just outside the office where his friend was ensconced. The young woman looked up at him, barely nodding to his announcement. "He's expecting me," he continued with a touch of gruffness in his otherwise pleasant voice.

"Yeah?" she said as she loudly popped the gum she was chewing on and nodded distractedly, before turning back to her device that she used to send messages to her Estharian socialite friends. Luik looked thoroughly unimpressed, and made a mental note to get this girl some _proper_ secretarial training or be fired. The woman's name, Luik noted, was Hollis.

"Luik Leonhart is here to see _Laguna_," he said, with emphasis on Laguna's first name. Whoever this girl was, she wasn't a very good employee, and Luik was starting to wonder who had hired her when she clearly wasn't fit for such a job. He remembered when Raine had been alive still, planning to overthrow Adel, and wondered whether his sister would have made a good ruler—she would not have hired this chit of a girl.

"Ohhh," her voice resonated with faux-recognition, "I'll just buzz you through," and she did. Luik shook his head, annoyed. What a farce this had turned out to be. Finally he got into Laguna's office, setting himself down on one of the comfortable, high-backed suede covered chairs. It was only a few moments afterwards that he realised Laguna was nowhere to be found. It didn't alarm him—the man was prone to absentmindedness anyway. After a few minutes, he heard the automatic door open with a mechanical whirr.

**«--»•****«****--»**

It was just as she remembered. The dim familiar room where she'd spent time away from the world after moving to Esthar was just that. It wasn't her bedroom, but an unoccupied training room once used to train palace guards. Dim. Quiet. There was solitude. She needed it. The serenity of the room was good—allowed her to get her thoughts in order. She wasn't sure what to do about the situation with Seifer—it was complicated enough, with him having been released from prison mere weeks ago and given asylum in Esthar. Though she didn't like to admit it, she hoped he was going to stay. She admitted to herself, as much as she'd admit to anyone, that she'd missed him.

She sometimes wished that she could hate him. It'd make things a lot easier, and definitely less complicated. But she didn't. She couldn't hate him. No, if anything, she pitied him, and Hyne knew pity was worse than hate. She breathed deeply through her nose, held it for a moment, and then exhaled. Standing up, she made her way through the dimness of the room until she found the smooth, metal exterior of her whip's case. She'd not touched it in years, yet she remembered well the day she'd got it. It'd been the day of that dreadful battle against Seifer in the Lunatic Pandora. She closed her eyes, fingers finding the clasps from memory as she unlocked the case.

**«--»•****«****--»**

_Springtime, Quistis had been eight years old, playing in the flowers that sprung from the newly-green earth after the cold winter. There'd been shouting coming from the orphanage, the yells and screams of Seifer as he was taken away from everything he knew. The only mother he knew, and indeed, any of them knew, was parting with one of her children. Quistis, running only to see the old, rusty truck drive away in a cloud of red dust, the hollering of the young boy as he screamed at them to let him out—_and then Quistis awoke. She'd fallen asleep, it seemed, in the dark room, hands still clutched around the case of her long-disused weapon.

When she'd left Garden, she'd left with the belief that words were the way forward, not violence. It was the reason she'd been drawn to Esthar. Since the era of peace, before the struggle against Adel, Esthar had been a city ruled by an ancient monarchy. Such things were not easily destroyed unless some calamity of nature occurred. Quistis had been awestruck by some of the ancient buildings that ran along the outskirts of the grand city. Tear's Point, she was sure, had once been a temple to Hyne that the ancient race that once inhabited Esthar—and given that there indeed was evidence that the Centra-built shelters such as Garden—it wasn't an impossible step in her logic.

The fogginess of her memory made it uncertain to her whether it was something she'd learnt, or something she'd known already. There were times when Quistis felt as if there was a veil hanging between what she knew was in her memory, and the memories that were long before the use of the GFs. How she would give anything to have those memories back, memories which she was certain would give her peace. She stood shakily, and left the room, leaving Save the Queen in its case. She knew then and there that she'd never snap a whip again, nor brandish it in battle to save a comrade or herself. That was how Seifer found her a few hours later, staring out over the balcony. He crept up behind her, a soft smirk on his face. It was strange, he reflected, what ten years could do.

"Quistis," he spoke her name softly, and watched as she turned. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights: blue eyes wide, face flushed, lips pink and hair askew. It seemed to Seifer that she'd been caught in that moment where he guard was completely down. It was something he wasn't used to seeing—the vulnerability that lay lurking beneath the façade of coolness and the outer perception of who she was. Here was someone he'd ridiculed, given a hard time, and yet she had defended him when nobody else had. He remembered the trial probably more vividly than she could ever imagine, and that hell, that horrible place known as the D-District Prison where he'd once tortured Squall. It had kept him sane in its knowledge that someone did care.

"Seifer," Quistis responded, after what seemed like minutes. "What— what're you doing here?" she enquired hesitantly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She was waiting for a return of the _old Seifer_, harsh, abrupt, abrasive, the one who was an arrogant jerk and yet she knew he was far more than that. She resumed looking out over the vast expanse of Esthar City, seeing the lights coming on as the sun slowly dipped behind the horizon, coating the city in glorious orange light. It was amazing, the mild heat of the day, and then the chill of winter in the evening. She supposed it was normal, given the desert-like plateau that spread so far in both directions, north towards the frozen tundra of Trabia and Shumi, and to the south, where the vast barren Centra plains spread for miles. The chill of the wind from the north caused her to shiver, and Seifer, she realised, was warm.

She didn't understand the impulses that drove her to lean against his shoulder—the impulses that lead her to take a foolish step in the dark. She wasn't even sure if it was out of isolated loneliness that she wrapped her arms around him and rested her head against his solid chest. She would never understand what had happened in those few infinitely small moments to make her do it. Only when he wrapped his arms around her, did she feel safe. Quistis felt safe in Seifer's arms—something that would never be explained in any rational words.

**«--»•****«****--»**

_Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. _

_Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight. _

Tennyson, "Locksley Hall"

**«--»•****«****--»**

For months after the fact, the people of Esthar and indeed, the world, would shake their heads and wonder how one of the most respected woman in global politics had gotten involved with the man that many saw as a traitor and a puppet to an evil sorceress. There was no explanation except the most simple, _love_. The tabloids, including one particularly vicious gossip columnist, labelled the relationship as a farce, and prophesied it to end badly. But oblivious they were, happy in love. The tabloids, doing their part, tried their hardest to find the _dirty secrets of Quistis Trepe_, but found none.

**«--»•****«****--»**

It was winter in Esthar. What passed for winter, at least. To the cities in the west, Esthar seemed like summer, with the heat during the day being warmer than a Deling City summer. Although there was the smallest bit of frost on the ground, it quickly vanished in the early parts of the morning before the midday sun beat down. Kiros and Anisa, Quistis, Laguna, Luik Leonhart and several other dignitaries were working hard on negotiations between Timber, Esthar and the Trabian Consul (comprised of four different people in various parts of the mostly barren Trabia settlement), and an agreement that would solidify the not-so-solid agreement that Esthar would help rebuild sections of the various areas surrounding Trabia Garden.

"If I may be so bold as to cross the floor," a dignitary began with a ponderous expression etched on his face, "I would like to yield the power to the Trabian Consul-General." The silence that followed that proclamation was heavy, and Quistis bit her lip, looking across at Anisa, then towards Laguna and Kiros. She leaned forwards, then looked sharply at the dignitary, her gaze icy.

"Be as that may, Mr Nazario, but it's not entirely up to you to decide who wields power in this situation," she said, watching as Tacito Nazario sputtered, his face turning a rather violent shade of puce. "I would like to remind all of us in the negotiation process that everyone has an equal voice, and an equal vote," she continued, determined to stop what she was sure was going to become a shouting match between Mr Nazario and Anisa. She knew tension ran high between Timber and Trabia, had known it during her time as president. It had been something small, something forgotten by most of the world in recent history, overshadowed by the first and second wars, that had caused an ancient feud between two otherwise unconnected countries. Nobody quite understood how the feud had begun.

But it had, and Quistis, along with everyone in the meeting room, was aware of it. But there was even more tension than they knew. Luik, sage and grey, a veritable wise man with knowledge of the old divisions of the country before Esthar had settled. The borders were old, and had been a sore point for his family, in old times. Trabia had once owned the land south of Tear's Point, and were now wanting to reclaim it. Luik was acting on the knowledge from his homeland, far to the north of Esthar in the Kashkabald Mountains. There had been ongoing arguments as to which country the Kashkabalds belonged to, for they straddled the border of the two countries. "Ms Trepe raises an excellent point," he began, nodding at her with his old kind face serene, "For the Consul-General to be given the power, we must ensure that the checks and balances are in place, that should the Consul-General be found to be corrupt, or to be found accepting money for illegal deals, such as the recent Galbadian Arms Acquisition, which, ladies and gentlemen, can be found on page five of your briefing," he paused, reached over for his glass of water, and took a sip before continuing, "We will not be impressed by such behaviour, and Esthar," he looked over at Laguna, "will definitely not be impressed by such a misappropriation of the generosity extended to this project."

Tacito Nazario looked surly. A scowl crossed his face, and he stood up. "This is an outrage!" he hissed, and stormed out of the room. With Nazario gone, Quistis started giggling uncontrollably—she found the entire situation quite hilarious, as a grown man, in his fifties, was throwing a tantrum like her four-year-old daughter.

"Might I suggest we recess for lunch?" she suggested, trying to stop giggling with all her might. But it was a hard thing to do—the giggles kept coming whenever she met someone's eye. Standing, Quistis excused herself, walked down the hallway, opened the door of a public restroom and went into a stall where she promptly collapsed into a fit of riotous, cathartic laughter. It'd been such a stressful morning that all she wanted was to get out of the city, but she knew she couldn't, due to her hectic schedule—she had meetings for weeks on end.

**«--»•****«****--»**

Seifer Almasy was bored. No, he was more than that, really. He'd gone to the training rooms, where he'd proceeded to kick the stuffing quite literally out of a punching bag, the training room overseer had banned him from returning. So here he was, a lit cigarette between his lips, crouched down in the shade of a skyscraper. The thin smoke curled up and around his head, getting into his hair. It was damned uncomfortable, the coldness of Esthar in the winter. Cocking his head to the side as he heard the unmistakeable sound of a gunshot, Seifer dropped his cigarette, gunblade flashing in the sunlight as he rushed towards the scene.

It was the perfect break in monotony that he was after.

From the street, it looked like an ordinary fight; the reality was worse.

A flash of silver, then someone with a dark complexion, hurried past. Seifer felt his heart lurch—it might be _Fujin_ or _Raijin_ there, his loyal posse. A slight, twisted smile came to his lips. Whatever they were doing in Esthar, they hadn't seen fit to look him up. Of course, he supposed he hadn't really been all that easy to contact, being in jail and all.

The next thing Seifer knew, a pair of blue eyes were gazing concernedly at him. The room spun, vertigo hitting him like the proverbial tonne of bricks and mortar, and he blinked, trying to figure out whether the fucking hell the chicobos dancing around his head were real or imaginary. Then a voice which he knew so well from years of ignoring it popped into his thoughts, and Seifer scowled.

"—You've sustained _another_ scar, Seifer," the voice said with irritation, coupled with—what _was _it? Pity? Compassion? Pah! He didn't _need _her fucking compassion! But the overwhelming confusion of feelings he'd been nursing for more than the better half of his life—were coming to the fore again. Like always. He had once dreamed of ripping her prim instructor's uniform off and having her then and there in her classroom.

"—Fortunately, this one doesn't require disciplinary measures." Her voice cut into his reminisces of a schoolboy fantasy. He glanced up to see her stern face, mouth set in a grim scowl. It seemed like she was annoyed, though he knew her well enough to figure she wasn't as annoyed as she appeared.

"Spare me the lecture," he bit out, gritting his teeth as he felt his forehead twinge. Rubbing his scar, Seifer sighed in annoyance when he felt the familiar netting of bandaging webbing across his forehead. "Quistis, aren't you meant to be in a meeting, anyway?" he frowned as much as pain would allow him to. "What happened?"

Quistis sighed, sinking down into the chair beside his bed. "There was an attack near the Palace. Fortunately, the damage is being repaired as we speak—some new terrorist threat," she sighed, looking suddenly very young. It was a look Seifer remembered from when they'd been orphans together. She'd been so terrified when they'd brought her in, looking for all the world like a lost soul. Her hand reached out to touch Seifer's forehead. "There's no news on who did it—we're still piecing it together. Tacito Nazario stormed out of the meeting in a huff—he's the Trabian Consul-General—and Mr Leonhart, Mr Loire and the rest of the members of the diplomatic council dispersed shortly afterwards. Then the blast—I want to know what you were doing at the time," she said softly, as he reached his hand up to squeeze hers.

What he'd been doing was having a smoke when he heard the gunshot. That was all he remembered. He didn't remember flying arse over tit after the explosion Quistis had described, nor the frantic attempts made by those who had magic junctioned. When all was said and done, Full Life magic was the equivalent of being slapped a dozen times in the face with a wet and still wriggling herring.

Looking at Quistis, Seifer let out a tired smile. "I was having a smoke, then there was a gunshot. Last thing I remember doing is reaching for Hyperion, hallucinating that I saw Fujin and Raijin, and then blacking out as something hit the back of my skull," he said, grimacing at how pathetic he sounded, even to himself.

Quistis frowned. She fiddled with her hair, a nervous habit that she'd picked up long ago during her days as a SeeD. Somehow, all of that seemed so far away now—so foreign to her that she'd forgotten the last time she held Save the Queen in her hands. It looked to her that she may have to take up her whip once more, should the group behind the attack strike again.

**«--»•****«****--»**

The swarthy man in the control panel just north of Esthar smiled grimly to himself. Esthar was in for a lot more surprises.

The fun had just begun…


	4. Chapter IV: Just such disparity

**Of Air and Angels**

**By Dragonbait**

**Chapter Four**

_Just such disparity,_

_As is 'twixt air and angels' purity,_

'_Twixt women's love, and men's will ever be_

John Donne—"Air and Angels"

**«----»•«---»**

In Galbadia, a phone rang in the Caraway residence. General Caraway groaned and picked it up. "Yes?" he said brusquely.

"Have you heard the news?"

"What news?" Caraway had never been a patient man. The voice on the telephone sounded familiar, but the retired general couldn't quite place it. Looking at the only framed photograph on his desk of a radiant and beaming Rinoa with a rather embarrassed but also beaming Squall on their wedding day, Caraway found that he had the patience to deal with this anonymous caller. "Hurry up and get to your point," he ordered, half-expecting to hear a click on the end of the line.

"Esthar has been attacked." The line went dead.

Scowling, Caraway pointed the remote at the television. A scene, not unlike the one witnessed some previous hours earlier by Squall, showed on the screen. There was chaos and destruction, as though the Elvoret that Galbadia had disturbed at Dollet all those years earlier had whipped through the city, creating havoc in its wake. The Lunar Cry held no comparison to the destruction of Esthar. Swearing loudly, much to his own dismay, Caraway picked up the phone again, dialling the direct line of Laguna Loire.

**«----»•«---»**

"A terrorist attack rocked Esthar City to its very core today." The newsreader tried and failed to look saddened by this. "While Esthar officials are still working to determine the cause of the blast, along with the identity of the terrorist group, seven hundred Estharians have been confirmed missing."

With a disgusted sigh, Squall Leonhart turned off the television and rolled on his side to face his wife. This was going to be a major headache, and not just for Esthar, but for Balamb and Trabia. Galbadia wasn't even in the equation, as far as he was concerned. There'd been numerous outbreaks like this, Squall reflected dully, since the end of the Third Sorceress War.

In the beginning, the attacks were blamed on Galbadia, but now Squall wasn't sure. He'd had numerous reports land on his desk, all indicating that Galbadia was still bitter about their defeat by Esthar and Balamb. He'd received other reports, which he'd read once and then discarded, about a separatist sect living in the barren expanse between Trabia and Esthar. He had not given further thought to the reports, believing that there was nothing he, as commander of Balamb Garden, could do. He often wondered now and then, whether that decision to disregard the reports had been wise. Cursing himself, and Hyne, in the bargain, Squall rolled out of bed. SeeD would undoubtedly be called upon, as usual, to act as peace-keepers, a role that Squall, jaded and cynical, reflected would do no good if the separatists were truly intent on carrying out their threats. He disliked the idea of sending a team in pre-emptively, they were meant to be a mercenary agency, not a charitable organisation. He felt trapped between doing what was right and bureaucracy. The politics of Garden and those outside the insular institution differed on many points. But all that had gone to hell when Laguna insisted on contracting SeeD to act as an intermediary for many of Esthar's dealings. The neutrality of SeeD, he had stated, was important, as well as their balanced overview and scope, which could offer a yet-unknown view of an issue.

The war had been over for ten years. He had a sinking feeling that the attacks he'd seen on the television were only just the tip of the proverbial iceberg—there were rumours of unrest, of violence and separatist groups. Laguna had warned him, as had Rinoa and Edea, and even Cid, that these groups could strike at any moment, unprovoked. Swearing loudly, the commander of Balamb Garden headed out of his dormitory and upstairs to his office. In a foul mood, and annoyed with himself, Squall's footsteps sounded like the marching of heavy infantry. Reaching the office, the often-irritable commander flipped the switch that opened the blinds, letting rays of bright sunlight hit his eyes. Sitting down at his desk, Squall rifled through the reports stacked in an orderly pile for any references to the name of the separatist sect. He hoped it was not Galbadia who attacked. He prayed it wasn't Galbadia. In fact, Galbadia would be foolish to attack Esthar, especially after the Treaty at Tears Point had been signed, stating that Galbadia was responsible for remunerating Esthar for the cost of the damage done.

Always the consummate soldier, Squall knew that offers would be made to help each side clean up after such a disaster.

**«----»•«---»**

In Esthar, it was the Lunar Cry all over again. The same panic, fear, anxiety and worry that Estharians had not felt for twelve years came flooding back, watching as wave after wave of explosions ricocheted off the walls. Another attack, just days after the first one, was enough to send panic throughout the city. The phone lines, communications, vital things had been cut off, and everyone was running around like so many wild chocobos. Cellular communication wasn't working, the city was in disarray, and from Laguna's plexiglass office, one could see an old man wizened with age jump up and down with excitement, his Elizabethan collar as rigid as ever before. For one person, this chaos was good, and that one person was none other than Doctor Odine.

Excitement tingled in his veins, and in his fingers. As old and decrepit as he was, he still got that wonderful adrenaline rush every time he saw a catastrophe to be studied. He wasn't even sure what this was, nor what had happened, but at seventy, with a brain sharper than Squall's famous gunblade Lionheart, he would not rest. Odine thrived on such dire misfortune, and this was no exception. Always a scientist, he had been instrumental in devising a way to limit the power of a sorceress and even, mess around with time—Junction Machine Ellone, to be precise, had always been his most coveted and most prized invention. Like a man out of legend, he had discovered something important, his moment of eureka and elation was too much for the ageing man to bear. Jumping up and down for joy, Odine knew that this was no ordinary attack, whoever had ordered it had done so with new technology even he had no idea about. The explosion marks were what had clued him in. They were unlike anything he'd ever seen.

It was the Deep Sea Research Deposit all over again; it was the sealing devices which had lead to the entombment of Adel. For a moment of infinite sweetness, Odine savoured his victory. He had something to study again. That was what mattered to him. Looking towards the president's office, Odine saw the bulky outline of Ward, followed closely by the lean and lanky outline of Kiros, and finally, the shorter outline of the president himself. For a moment, Odine wondered whether it was a good time to interrupt. Surely, he was called for in a crisis like this, but as he observed the three men, Odine hummed softly to himself, and walked back slowly towards his laboratory. Perhaps it was best that he figure out his theories first before talking to the president. Odine had seen the destruction they had unleashed into the world when they disturbed the slumber of Ultima Weapon—a creature thought to have been mere myth and legend. He'd witnessed the power of destruction so great and angry that they were forced to abandon their research in the Deep Sea Research Deposit. He'd been young then, and foolish.

Ultima Weapon, in Adel's hands wiped out an entire continent, just north of Trabia. After Adel's sealing, Laguna had ordered scientists and military alike to destroy Ultima Weapon. They had attempted to, and failed. So they sank the research centre, and Ultima Weapon with it.

He had felt they delved too deep, but it was Adel's time, and his voice of dissent had not won him any favours.

Hurrying to his laboratory, Odine gathered samples of bits and pieces, pulling a C4 apart. Biting his lip as he pried two wires apart, Odine, not for the first time, wondered whether Esthar had awoken the proverbial sleeping giant when they'd sent Leonhart and company into the future. Often, he had such thoughts while trying to do things. His mind wandered occasionally, obfuscating his thought process, and he often found that age was starting to catch up to him. Such a thing frustrated him at times, and Odine knew he'd need to start writing things down instead of relying solely on his memory.

As he worked, he pondered on things long since gone, such as a wife and three children, all buried beneath the red soil of Esthar's memorials. Long ago, before the madness which was Sorceress Adel, he had been young once, a father and a loving husband, and then _she_ came, filling his head and the heads of thousands of young men his age, with a dream which had been too terrible to realise. Adel, the bane and scourge of Esthar, and the world. Her mannish figure and mannerisms, the insanity which filled her heart and the hearts of those around her only wrought destruction and chaos was ultimately her downfall; she had been a bad dream. There were many similarities between Ultimecia and Adel, Odine reflected.

«-----»•«-----»

A hand trailed lightly down the side of his face as he felt her presence. Moving his own injured hand up, he covered hers with his larger one. Blinking a few times as his eyes adjusted to the light and the room, he couldn't believe where he was. _Was this Valhalla?_ No, it wasn't. In all the myths and tales told about Odin's fabled hall of the slain, there were no wounds.

Seifer's body ached. If he were in Valhalla, he was sure his injuries would be gone, and he would be revelling. That was the story he'd been told as a boy—that the knights and warriors went to Valhalla, where they could fight and feast to their heart's content. Quistis, perhaps, was the Valkyrie, the battle-maiden and warrior-chooser, he thought, how she had come through and believed in him. She was his sorceress, his damsel in distress. It was close enough to being a knight guarding his sorceress, after all. The Sorceress chose her knight, so why not the Valkyrie her Einherjar? SeeDs, knights, warriors, einherjar, soldiers, fighters—they were the same thing given many names—they all boiled down to someone who fought battles. In another era, perhaps Seifer had been a hero, but in this era, he was an ex-convict. Throughout history, Seifer thought, only good men became glorified—and those who had deviated but a little from that path of righteousness became vilified, spat upon in history's books. It had made him so determined, even as a young boy, to become a hero of some sort.

But history rarely remembers a conquered hero.

Quistis, pale with worry, her forehead lined beyond what Seifer had thought possible for one so young, sat straight-backed in the chair beside his bed. Her eyes were closed, he noticed, Síla sitting next to her mother. Laguna, too, was in the room, his hand lightly clasped on the little girl's shoulder. He was unsurprised to see Laguna there, for some reason.

"Uhh…" he began, before trying to sit up. The world swam before his eyes, the room going once more topsy-turvy. He felt like he'd been hit by Doomtrain. The extent of his injuries were only just becoming apparent to him now. His bandaged head was one thing, but he had not expected the other pain coming from his abdomen.

"Hush, Seifer," Quistis said, a pale hand coming to rest on his brow as he laid back in on his pillow.

She knew he would tear his stitches if he remained active. They'd waited for what had felt like hours, white-faced with worry as the best surgeons and paramagic specialists attempted to heal his injuries. Glass had been embedded in his side, and the amount of damage had been vast. The head injury, so similar to the identical scar he'd given Squall all those years ago, throbbed. Seifer wished for the days when all he had to worry about was whether or not he would pass the field exam.

"_Seven hundred dead… catastrophe of the worst proportions… even worse than the Lunar Cry._" The words drifted through his delirium, barely making sense, but their power was not lost on Seifer. He'd been partially responsible for the Lunar Cry, excavating the Lunatic Pandora from its resting place beneath the sea. Seifer could remember little of those heady days.

Quistis had sat beside his bed whilst she could have been dealing with Tacito Nazario. The fact that she had chosen to sit beside the bed of a former convict and knight spoke volumes about her personality. It felt normal to her, being by the bedside of someone she had known since childhood—it felt like she had slipped, unconsciously, into the role of nursemaid. When she had been young, and they'd lived in the orphanage by the sea, Quistis had been a nurse when they were sick—helping Matron tend to the other children. She'd been a nurse long before she'd been an instructor--a role that felt far more natural to her than all her others. She'd been a SeeD, an Instructor, a President of a small country, a mother, and a presidential aide to Laguna; and now it seemed as though the wheel was once more turning.

«-----»•«-----»

_The red dust was obscuring his view of the only home he'd known. Being driven away in an old, beat-up pickup, Seifer stuck half of his body out of the window, waving frantically at the family he left behind at the orphanage. The ripping vinyl on the bench seat was sticky from the warmth of the day. His thighs stuck to it, making squelching sounds as he shifted on the bench seat. So, this was his new life, was it? Matron had told Seifer that he was going to live on a camp with chocobos, and be the powder-boy for when they dropped fuses down to sink mines—it sounded like fun. The man who came wore a faded plaid shirt, unbuttoned, and a dark blue singlet, skinny legged jeans and smelled strongly of cigarette smoke._

"_Hey, boy, get in the truck," he'd told Seifer, and Seifer had complied, barely sparing a thought for anyone except Matron. "I don't have time to wait for you to say your goodbyes, boy. Make it quick, you've got your belongings, right?"_

_Seifer nodded. Matron had packed his bag the night before; a loving kiss placed on his brow as she'd ghosted from room to room during the witching hours. He'd been awake then, staring up at the ceiling and wanting to see stars and dream of being a knight. It'd always been his dream—a dream fuelled by old movies on the television. And now, sitting on a vinyl seat, bouncing along a dirt track that could not be classified as a road, he wondered where he was going, whether he'd have his very own room—he'd hated sharing with Chicken-wuss and Squall. _

"_Where are we going?" he inquired, eyes wide as the old rusty truck bounced along another few thousand bumps in the ungraded road._

"_The mines, boy. You're gonna be a miner's kid. Won't that be fun?"_

"_Where are the mines?" The question was innocent. Seifer imagined great big rocks with shiny things on them hanging from the roof. In his eight-year-old mind, the mines were an awesome thing to go to, and he could even pretend to excavate great gemstones._

"_Trabia. You ever been there?" The name of the man was Peter, and Seifer would later learn he had been a scientist in Esthar before Adel. He'd lost his sons, Jake and Callum, to the mine's treachery. But he wasn't going to give up on finding his elusive cache, the quick that would make him rich. Seifer shook his head, wide eyed and innocent. Peter smiled, not unkindly. "You'll like it there, kid. The missus is a lovely lady, me other three sons, Mick, Alastair and Julian and their wives and kids, they still work there and live just up the road from us there." Twenty years, two sons dead, three still working, and the wife, Patentia, not getting any younger, Peter needed a young boy to help them out. _

_The trip wore on. At night, they crossed the water from Centra to Esthar by ferry. The trip, all in all, took a week. Seifer had watched as the great expansive desert of Esthar stretched out before their eyes, and the long climb over the mountains, with Peter only stopping every now and then to refuel and get food for the two weary travellers. They reached the checkpoint between the two countries, and Seifer saw for the first time, the arctic tundra that was his new home._

_But things would not work out for him. His adoptive father would die tragically in a mining accident. The miners delved too deep, and hit the source of the earth's water supply. In what would later be described by geologists as a freak accident, Peter drowned, along with three other men. The mine had flooded. Peter's body, water-logged and nibbled at by fastitocalons and other underground species, was lifted up, finally, in a bucket normally used to haul up their cache of stones. Patentia DeVega would now have to bury her husband, and her heart broke._

_Seifer, at age ten, felt horrified, and then disgusted. That night, Peter's story of losing Jake and Callum was told to all the miners who had survived. By the dim light of the camp-fire, Seifer watched as the men passed around a flask, each taking a long sip from it and handing it to the other man. It was summer, but the night was chilled by the wind that blew in from the tops of the Trabian mountains. Just before dawn, the fire was extinguished, and the men, half-drunk with fatigue, stumbled home to their wives and families. The miners believed strongly in closing down the mines, and Patentia, having already lost two of her sons and now her husband, left town, and Trabia entirely, taking Seifer with her._

_He would enter Balamb Garden two weeks later, a changed, difficult boy with a chip on his shoulder. This incident further compounded his dislike of people leaving him._

«-----»•«-----»

He remembered taunting Squall. He remembered it all, as if through the shimmering haze of gasoline as it caught the sun's rays. He had held Hyperion aloft the night of the grand parade. He could recall the taste of metal—blood dripping and pooling around him as he suffered defeat after bitter defeat. He acquired new scars in prison and a new tattoo, forever branding him a criminal: a series of numbers with a single letter. He'd spent his time atoning for what he'd done. He could remember the shackles, and the torture-- the electric device he'd once taken sadistic pleasure in torturing Squall with had been turned against him.

It was an odd thing to be thinking of, lying there staring up at the ceiling where the low overhead lights flickered dimly. It was quiet, and Seifer thought they'd come soon with their trays clanging with medications and their blood pressure and temperature monitors. Lying again in a hospital bed was something he had become familiar with over the years. He'd had, he would argue, more than his fair share of prison brawls and scrap fights. He dozed now and then, waking as the nurses did their midnight rounds, and drifting once again into that semi-sleep—common amongst those who spent their hours in a hospital bed.

«-----»•«-----»

_Your faith was strong, but you needed proof_

_You saw her bathing on the roof_

_Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you_

_She tied you to a kitchen chair_

_She broke your throne, she cut your hair_

_And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah_

-- Hallelujah, Leonard Cohen.

«-----»•«-----»


	5. Chapter V: Freedom's just another word

**Of Air and Angels**

**By Dragonbait**

**Chapter Five**

_Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose_

_And nothing ain't worth nothing but it's free_

_Feeling good was easy Lord when Bobby sang the blues_

_And buddy that was good enough for me_

_Good enough for me an' my Bobby McGee_

--Kris Kristofferson, _Me and Bobby McGee_

**«----»•«---»**

The day dawned with a tinge of blood on the horizon. For the first time since the Lunar Cry ten years ago, it seemed an auspicious day—a day to remember forever. Like a tired child, people would later remember this day as a hazy one, shimmering now and forever in their memories. It was a day of…well, Quistis wasn't sure. Standing slightly to one side of Laguna and a few steps behind him, she listened to his impassioned speech which promised to rebuild Esthar. Laguna spoke with conviction and with the courage of an everyman doing what he could to make it right, just as he had done twenty-eight years before. To his right, Anisa and Kiros stood arms by their sides, hands entwined.

"We will rebuild our city, make it stronger. We will show whoever is behind these attacks that Esthar will not fall as easily as they think." Laguna's eyes gleamed with hope, and Quistis found herself admiring him. "Esthar has seen it all, and we will live again. Like Phoenix, we will rise from the ashes—and everything will be fine." His eyes gleamed with hope, and Quistis noticed the shining aura of optimism glimmering in his posture.

To his right Luik stood, leaning on his walking stick as he listened to the words spoken. How he wished his sister could see the man who she had loved today—but she lay dead and buried, and his memories of her were fading. Luik could remember her dancing in a circle, linking hands with others, and spinning round and round into the next man's arms, always careful to smile at them. Raine had a look about her—the way she pursed her lips in frustration—and Luik missed his sister now more than ever. She would be proud of Laguna, he knew that. As his brother-in-law finished his speech, Luik watched as Quistis took the podium. She was a stately figure, in a suit of grey cashmere, her hair pulled severely back into a bun. To Luik, she looked oddly young. He could remember being young once, without the debilitating pain of arthritis. She was graceful and elegant, even with her youth, which he was sure would stay forever fresh in his mind.

"Thank you, President Loire," Quistis said softly, looking down at her notes for a moment, gathering her thoughts. "Like the president said, we will rebuild our lives and show the world that Esthar has come far from the days of radio silence. Like many of you, I remember the Lunar Cry, the destruction and chaos that was wrought on our city. We will hunt down those responsible for the destruction, and bring them back to make them atone for what they have done." She wished she was back at Edea's, sipping tea in the cool breeze that blew in on the sea—but she knew she had responsibilities here in Esthar; she couldn't abandon Síla's safety or the safety of her chosen home. "The terrorists will pay. I can assure you that Balamb Garden will take in those who no longer have homes, and that Trabia Garden, too, will take you in." She looked directly at those who stood in front of her, and smiled shakily. It was hard to believe that the security of Esthar had been so compromised. Reports on her desk, from Squall and the retired General Caraway were scattered around, open to various pages.

Laguna's idea to request SeeD to house the displaced families had been met with resistance. Galbadia Garden wanted nothing to do with its traditional enemy, which did not surprise Quistis in the slightest. The real surprise had come when Trabia was the first to call and volunteer their support. Quistis supposed Selphie and Irvine maintained a fond spot in their heart for Esthar and wanted to help. Looking out at the crowd once more, Quistis took a calming breath and spoke again. "We are working around the clock to identify bodies and match them using DNA-recognition testing. If your loved ones or family are missing, there has been an information portal set up near the O-Labs, you'll find all the information there. Don't worry, we will find them."

**«----»•«---»**

Seifer lay back in his hospital bed, shifting uncomfortably. He was bored and restless—a sure sign that he was recovering. His bones were on the mend, and his newly-acquired scar had disappeared into an angry mass of red skin around where the gauze and tape were placed on his left hip. The tape irritated him. The television blared with information the Estharian military had put together, but Seifer was certain that they'd never find the person who committed the attacks. It was too convenient, he thought, if it was a former scientist in Esthar who had vanished mysteriously several years ago. He could remember the days before the war, before his dreams had turned into waking nightmares and the days where all he worried about was beating Squall into a bloody pulp at every chance he got. He wondered why it was taking Quistis so long to return to his side, snorting derisively at the thought. It was an odd sense of a relationship they had, and Seifer didn't bother over-thinking it. He knew that if he over-thought it, it would become ruined, like so many other things in his life.

Rinoa had been a dream, same with Ultimecia. The shimmering haze of his memories muddied the two women's faces, flashing forever between the two. But through that haze, a blonde angel's face came shining through, frustration clearly showing in her posture as she told him off. The looks, more than the words, spoke volumes for what he had come to feel. Over the months and years, he had come to admire Quistis Trepe for her integrity and honour, and her steadfast belief that everyone could be taught. As he dozed in and out of consciousness he often wondered whether the disciplinary committee had been a bad idea—the thought of that much power being in his grasp was something so far from his mind now. It had been heady, and addictive, but he never wanted it again. He'd do anything to tell people that he couldn't be trusted with power—that it corrupted him in ways that he'd not thought possible.

For nearly a year, he had gone mad. Once the Sorceress had caught him in her web, it had been impossible to break free. For the bloodshed, for the anger she had caught him in, she could not have picked a more willing lamb for the slaughter. But, in doing so, Ultimecia had ultimately doomed herself. Her knight could not travel time and space in order to defend her there, in her time, where her need was great. He had to exist in a time far in the past, and potentially cause greater doom and disaster than she had known. Squall, and indeed SeeD, had done him a great service in freeing him from the living prison he felt trapped in. Seifer stifled a snort, and a chuckle at the thought that puberty-boy had, unwittingly, freed him. The concept of Squall saving him from his prison was one that he hadn't quite come to terms with, but he could at least appreciate the ideals of his one-time rival. They'd been brothers, at one point, he could recall those days back in the orphanage.

He dozed in and out of consciousness, groggily blinking at the bright fluorescent lights overhead whenever he woke. His dreams were weird, full of strange flowers, and scents that he vaguely recognised. _"Come live with me, boy._" He could hear the tantalising promise she had made him. _"I will give you a world beyond your imagination"_. The promises turned to ash in daylight—the world that she had promised him was one where night reigned supreme, the globular moon hanging like something foretelling doom in the sky. "_Come, my boy. Take my hand and I will give you dreams beyond anything you can imagine._" Her voice took on a cajoling tone, and Seifer shivered, for her hand was as cold as a dead man's hand. It was as cold as Peter's hand, that final evening in Trabia, hauled up in the bucket. Seifer had successfully repressed those memories until then—until Ultimecia came and turned everything topsy-turvy. The aftershock of her brutality still hadn't quite sunk in.

He doubted it ever truly would.

**«----»•«---»**

A cold, sleek rifle in her hand, she stood, the gun butt on her shoulder as she looked through the sight. The view from where she stood, gun aimed and ready, meant that she had the clearest shot since Irvine Kinneas, twelve years prior, had attempted and failed at the assassination attempt on Edea Kramer's life. She smirked, coldly, thinking of her one-time paramour's failed assassination, and vowed that she would not fail. Not like that soft-hearted fool had. The sight that she got through the scope was a clear shot, and would, if lucky, penetrate Laguna's heart instantaneously. Closing her right eye, the girl looked once more through her scope, and pulled the trigger.

He never knew what hit him.

They would never know who it was who fired the fatal shot that killed Laguna Loire. Out of the midst of the cry of the population, a child's shrill voice rang out.

"DADDY! NO!" Síla, pushing her way past Ward and Kiros, came to rest near Laguna's feet, on her knees. Quistis tried to restrain her daughter as the shock of what just happened became clear. Watching as her daughter tried to get her father to stand up, she saw the blood bubbling from his mouth. Holding back a cry, she knelt down, drawing upon every last reserve of magic she still possessed. Calling on the healing properties of white wind, Quistis attempted several times to heal her friend. It was too late.. . In the moments he still drew breath, Laguna lifted his hand to the phantom of Raine's, and then, feeling it close over his, died.

Laguna Loire was dead. He had finally gone to Raine, to their life interrupted in Winhill. A happier, simpler time. He saw her waiting for him, smiling and throwing white petals from a basket, flashing forwards to her in his arms, and then to them spinning around in a circle together, crowned with wreaths. A slow smile seemed to cross his face in those last precious moments, but Quistis would never be sure if it was a true smile, or just an illusion.

**«----»•«---»**

The days that passed were forever lost to Quistis as she struggled to make sense of what had happened. It was with grim despair on Kiros and Ward's faces that they spoke of the suspicious and conspicuous absence of Tacito Nazario. They had held their tongues long enough; at least, Kiros had. He, at least, had Anisa to turn to. But behind closed doors, irreverent memories of Laguna's life were shared with much laughter, tears, and warmth. Kiros remembered the night in Galbadia, just a few days before the outbreak of the Second Sorceress War.

"There's Laguna," he began in a light-hearted tone, "I've dared him to go up to the piano and talk to Julia, and his leg cramps up! The sorry bastard had to limp back to us—but we were surprised when Julia came by our table that night." It was told irreverently, with love and sadness. They talked, at length, about the maps he forgot, the day he jumped off a cliff trying to escape Estharian soldiers, and then the irony of them ending up running Esthar.

The memorial service was hard to sit through. Dressed in a suit of black, Quistis held her daughter's hand as people talked, at length, about the man that many had known and admired. Squall, bolstered by Rinoa's hand in his, gave a perfunctory speech, brief and emotionless. His eyes, Quistis noticed, were rimmed with red, but he shed no tears. But it was obvious that the impact of losing his father had hit him hard, and even though their relationship had not existed that long, had come to mean something resembling love.

"When I first encountered Laguna," he began, speaking clearly, "I thought he was a bad dream. As I came to learn about my father, I learned that he was a man of principles, of passion, and he was a good man. Though our first meeting was to discuss a mission, after that was completed, we sat down one day, many months out, and we talked. As we talked, I learned that he was a soldier, first and foremost, like me. He had done many things, been a writer, a film-star," he gave a wry smile, and continued, "a revolutionary, and finally, in the position we have known him as: president." Squall's mouth felt dry. Though he'd given many speeches, this was one of the hardest he'd had to give.

Some days, it felt as though no time had passed at all since he had become the commander of Balamb Garden. Other days, it felt like the ten years had passed like an aeon. As Rinoa squeezed Squall's hand, he looked over at her, eyes shining with unshed tears. There would be time enough, later on, for tears and mourning. Right now, he had to be charming, and polite, a thing which was not easy for him.

The day they buried Laguna was sunny. The bright morning sunshine streamed down through the fluffy white clouds, hitting the green grass with a golden glow. The black soil, rich and fertile, created a contrast with the pale sky and the grass. In their Sunday best, the townsfolk of Winhill came down the path towards the old graveyard in droves. At last, their prodigal son had returned. Later, perhaps, than they would have liked, but he had returned. To Squall's undying consternation, the man who buried his father had performed the secret wedding ceremony. It seemed odd to him that the priest had outlived his congregation—the days when Father Sargon's congregation had been numerous had now passed; most were buried in the little parish cemetery where his father would now be interred. It was something Laguna would have wanted—to be buried alongside his wife.

"In life, we all walk the knife's edge between good and evil. Laguna Loire, in the years I knew him, walked that line successfully. There is great wisdom in the saying that the evil men do lives after them, but not so with Laguna, his goodness will always be remembered. Always, he treated everyone he met with equal kindness and compassion. When Raine found him, he was unconscious. She never regretted nursing him back to health." Sargon had liked Laguna. When all the other townsfolk had shunned him, Sargon had continued to believe in the newcomer. Many had turned up; many were unexpected and unlikely—even the Shumi tribe had come. Some, like the man who had enticed Laguna into joining the fight against Adel were there from many years of knowing him. Moombas, too, had shown up, and their tribute to Laguna was the most heart-wrenching. The statue of Laguna which had been sculpted by the Shumi would now be gifted to the townsfolk of Winhill—the president of Esthar had always remembered the kindness of those who had taken him in, and cared for him.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. May his soul find peace and his memory stay forever green..." The coffin was lowered down as Sargon made the final sign of Hyne above it. As the first of the gravediggers tossed the red soil on the coffin, Quistis turned away, hiding her face in Seifer's greatcoat. The hardest thing of all for Quistis was watching her daughter throw white daisies into the earth as the gravediggers covered it. The daisies bloomed all year round in Winhill, and Rinoa had discovered in the ten years he had been her father-in-law, that Laguna remembered when Raine and Ellone had danced around the square, daisies in their dark hair—they were a flower with significance, to Laguna.

Then came the wake. As those who had been close enough to Laguna filled the pub with parched throats, the band began to play. Whiskey was sloshed in glasses, there were songs of old days and other times, stories told, laughter and tears. Ellone watched as they smiled at silly things her Uncle Laguna had done, and shed a few tears herself. The older men started playing an old song, one that Raine had played a few times on a harp, as Ellone remembered. She sang the old song softly and well.


	6. Chapter VI: My father's gun

**Of Air and Angels**

**By Dragonbait**

**Chapter Six**

_From this day on I own my father's gun_

_We dug his shallow grave beneath the sun_

_I laid his body down below the southern land_

_Wouldn't do to bury him where any Yankee stands_

_--Bernie Taupin; My Father's Gun_

**«----»•«---»**

_A year later_

Seifer Almasy was off to hunt a legend.

As the situation in Esthar worsened, he knew he needed to do something—anything—to keep himself sane. Shouldering Hyperion, Seifer left Esthar, heading south to the ruins where heroes of long-forgotten wars had fought and trained. The crumbling tower of legend, where his boyhood heroes had trained, was none other than the Centra Ruins. Odin's defeat had not ruined the majesty of the place, its hallowed floors as pristine as he had remembered from those faded photographs taken by his father. Seifer had very few things from that man: the small wooden sliding box with a few faded photographs, a locket from his mother on a faded blue ribbon and a gun-- the beginnings of Hyperion. His father's gun, modified and adapted, had been one of the few things Edea had kept for him, and he had used it well. But now it was time for a new blade, one that wasn't bathed with the blood of thousands of innocents.

He was seeking out a famed and fabled swordsman.

Even if it killed him, Seifer hunted him. Quistis needed him. But more importantly, he needed her. That was something they knew—she needed his strength, but she herself was strong. Had he been mature enough when he was eighteen, he was sure that the whole thing with Ultimecia had been a mistake—she would not have seduced him with promises she never fulfilled. Hindsight made him twitch as he remembered the awfulness of the whole thing. But here he was, seeking a legend about a war. There was war on the horizon, and he knew it well.

As he climbed on the back of a chocobo, Seifer wondered whether he was being foolish. It was, in his mind, potentially foolish to hunt down a legend. Hyperion had had its day. Nobody wanted to touch it, for fear of its master's madness lingering in the blade, though the blood had long since dried. It was whispered in jail that Seifer was mad, and that he had killed thousands of men with one look. He'd pretended to be asleep, but often, he was forced into denying the rumours. He'd learned to keep his head down and his mouth shut. The prison had changed him. He'd seen men brought in, yelling and screaming, and wondered if he'd ever been that bad. He had called out in his sleep, but the words were always about her. Ultimecia—the name alone was enough to evoke shudders. She had made him into a monster—or had the monster always been there, lurking within him? He had no idea. But whatever the cause was, it was enough for him to wish that he hadn't gone with her. The regret was deep and it was too late to worry about the past.

"_Poor, poor boy..."_

A litany of things bubbled up at the memory. Seifer hated that he couldn't escape his past, no matter how hard he tried. Continuing over the hills and dales of Esthar's perimeters, Seifer felt the bile rise in the back of his throat as Ultimecia's words once more rang in his mind.

"_Such a confused little boy. Are you going to step forward? Retreat? You have to decide..."_

He didn't want to be a boy, but he didn't want to be an adult either. The choice Ultimecia presented him with was beyond anything SeeD had ever done. At least he'd had a chance for heroism back then. Now, with the bitter taste of defeat rising up in his throat like bile time and again, Seifer had long since come to terms with the devil's bargain he had struck. He supposed it was fitting that Ultimecia had bound him to her. There was still a part of him that she had power over, even though Squall had driven steel into her heart and killed her. He suppressed a grim chuckle, and the irony of the supposed enemy liberating him was never stronger.

"_Shut up!"_

"_Don't be ashamed to ask for help. Besides, you're only a little boy."_

She had used that word, taunting him with it like a snake charmer cajoling a deadly asp. The word was both derisive and cajoling. She had used it like poisoned honey, sickly sweet and bright—and at other times, like the cold hardness of steel being driven into his spine. Ultimecia had worn Matron's face well.

"_I'm not. Stop calling me a boy."_

He should have killed her then; but she had trapped him, unable to move or to do anything involving his free will. Hyperion tapped his thigh, and he looked down at the sword, disgusted. How could he, in good conscience, raise the same weapon he'd used to cut down soldiers now in defence of them? He wasn't given to philosophical thought often, but on the odd occasion it plagued him. Too much time alone gave the ghosts of his past a voice in his head. It was inescapable.

He longed for redemption.

He hunted for Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh had defeated him, so Seifer hunted him day and night for weeks until at last he found the swordsman and legendary king. Gilgamesh, the god-king of ancient days, stood before him, arms crossed.

"You dare enter my domain, puny human?" he asked imperiously, towering over Seifer as he grabbed his swords with consummate ease. "Prepare to meet your maker."

With that, the battle for Seifer's redemption began.

**«----»•«---»**

With steel singing and clashing blades, Gilgamesh taunted Seifer cruelly. "You can't defeat me, boy!"

"That's what Odin thought, too." Another song of steel as the two battled it out. Seifer twirled, his coat flaring out in brilliant fans of fabric.

"Odin was a weakling, boy." A derisive chuckle accompanied those words. The God-King stood proud and tall, his sword always meeting the oncoming blows effortlessly.

"I'M NOT A BOY!" Seifer lunged and, in fury, drove the tip of his blade into Gilgamesh's armour. His eyes glinted dangerously as he launched into an angry flurry of blows, ever impatient. The god-king stood passive, defending himself with his sword as the boy, so desperate to become a man, attacked.

"I'll train you, boy," Gilgamesh said at length.

There was that word again. _Boy_. Ultimecia had called him that. No matter what he did for her, he was always a boy. She liked to remind him that she was the last sorceress and how inferior he was to her. She liked, too, to remind him that he was just a puppet—a poor, foolish puppet.

Gilgamesh taught Seifer the value of chivalry, about how to forge a new blade, for Hyperion was beyond repair. Gilgamesh drove him hard, and often Seifer hated him for it. But he was fair, pushing Seifer in ways he had not anticipated, and under him, Seifer thrived.

The day came when the Centra ruins were deserted. Gilgamesh had vanished. A new sword tied with a red ribbon was driven into the centre of the ruins, a fitting parting gift. He crouched down to look at the white card on the ground. _Use it well, boy. May we meet again in the afterlife. Until then, the sword is yours, _it read. As Seifer grasped the hilt, the sword came up out of the stone easily—the hilt warm in his hand. Holding it outstretched, he felt the lack of the trigger in it, foreign to him. He lifted it high above his head with both hands and marvelled at the lack of weight. _It had to be adamantine_, he thought.

He had to return home, to her. But it would be an odyssey should he survive the arduous journey—the Lunar Cry had awoken fell beasts, and he knew the journey back home to her would be the most important thing he'd done in recent history. Seifer Almasy had promised her the world. He would gladly give it to her—even if it killed him to do it.

**«----»•«---»**

She was tired, and it showed. Quistis doodled idly, her other hand cupping her chin as members of her cabinet talked over her. The year had taken its toll on her, and she felt it keenly. In the year since Laguna's death, Quistis had struggled to make sense of it all—and with Seifer's disappearance worrying her, doubts once more plagued her. To be the President of Esthar was she fit in the interim to carry out this immense task? She wasn't sure. Knowing that she had to do it and that there was nobody else capable of filling Laguna's shoes made the burden worse. Her daughter had withdrawn into herself—refusing to talk. During those black days, Quistis was grateful for Ellone's quiet and unconditional love, and her willingness to look after Síla.

The members of cabinet spoke of little else but declaring war against Trabia. Sooner or later, she would have to declare war and that was another burden that weighed heavily on her mind. Vengeance was a hollow victory, she had learned, but at the same time, it was unthinkable that Laguna's death should go unpunished. She knew, too, that she would have to decide on whether to take up the old arms that she had forsaken and arm herself once again as a fighter—a general, judge, and executor on the field of battle. Surprisingly, Galbadia, once considered Esthar's enemy, had allied with their new president openly embracing the chance to put aside former grudges.

Christian Forsyth was a wise man. She knew that much.

"I suggest we turn our minds to more important matters, gentlemen," she said softly, speaking up at last. Her voice carried in the room. "We need to find Nazario, and fast. Whatever rabbit warren he has dug himself, we must find him." Her eyes shined with desperation, and she felt sheer exhaustion threaten to engulf her once more. She had to be strong; she had to show them that she was capable of stepping into the enormous shoes left by Laguna. For her to do that, she had to put aside the worry she felt at Seifer's sudden disappearance.

He had left her shortly after Laguna's funeral. She awoke one morning to find his side of the bed cold and his few possessions gone. No hint, no paper creased with her name on one side and a scrawl on the other half. He had simply vanished. Quistis wondered sometimes if the year they had spent together meant anything to him at all. She feared for his safety but had more important things to worry about than her wayward lover. She had been elected president of Esthar-- a unanimous decision by both the people of her chosen country and the senate that governed it. Again, she wondered whether she was strong enough to govern wisely and faltered at every step. Quistis suddenly understood the revoking of her instructors' license and the wisdom Garden had shown in doing so.

That didn't mean that she wasn't going to do the best job she could do. She searched inside herself and found the strength to put one foot in front of the other. A cheerful attitude was one thing she had learned to fake and fake well during that brief flirtation she had had with being an instructor.

Her heart broke daily as she watched her daughter grow, looking more and more like Laguna with each passing day. After Laguna's funeral, Quistis had returned disconsolately to Esthar, holding her daughter's hand in hers. Squall had offered to look after his half-sister, but Quistis had refused out of pride. It wasn't so much that he had offered, the offer had been generous, but she was unsure if she could cope without Síla there.

"Where do we start looking? He's been missing for a year," someone said, jerking her back to the reality of their discussion on finding Tacito Nazario. The man speaking was a tall man, with tight curly short dark hair and a goatee, and Quistis recognised him as Vlahos, another former SeeD like herself who had once been stationed in Esthar and had left shortly after the war. Vlahos, like Quistis, had been an instructor, but he had chosen to renounce his instructorship and resume the nomadic life of a SeeD. "I'd suggest, President Trepe, that we start with his contacts in the Trabia region, but whether they'd be willing to sell the snake out is another matter entirely."

Quistis nodded. Vlahos pointed to a map and touched the desk. The map zoomed in and Quistis recognised the area as Shumi.

"That's Shumi territory, and they're not likely to harbour a fugitive," Mercia said, and brought up another area on the map. Mercia was a short woman at five foot with short cropped red hair and a set of distinctive glasses perched on her nose. "He's more likely to be found in Fisherman's Horizon, where every other wannabe war criminal flees to." Quistis agreed with her. After the Second Sorceress War, Mayor Dobe, ever the pacifist, had welcomed fugitives provided they didn't cause trouble to the town. A decision, she was sure, he would regret. It wasn't her place to say anything, as Dobe was a fool who had repeatedly shunned diplomatic overtures.

"I move we contact White SeeD. They are far more capable on this sort of mission, as it requires subterfuge half of Garden is no longer capable of." Mercia continued. Mercia had been a White SeeD before she had become a liaison officer, and she knew what she was talking about. Eleven years ago, she had sailed around the world on a boat, protecting Ellone Loire—a mission that had been boring, but she didn't regret it one bit. "We also need to find the assassin. Janoah Wylie was last spotted in Dollet by one of our contacts there. If you look at the screen, you will see a list of her last moves before she gave us the slip."

Quistis glanced down at the screen, seeing the face of the woman who had killed the father of her child alongside a detailed itinerary. The woman's face was partially obscured by a tangerine and lime paisley-patterned headdress, which Quistis recognised as being the traditional garb of the Shumi women. However, Artisan at the village had told her that few Shumi women wore it these days; it had fallen out of fashion when they had first started the excavation of their tranquil village miles beneath the earth. Quistis frowned, wondering why the assassin wore such a distinctive headdress.

"The headdress she's wearing is of Shumi origin, though the fabric and the pattern on the fabric are that of Timber design. May I also suggest we try and find where she purchased the headdress? It may prove an important clue in determining her whereabouts." Mercia continued a frown on her face.

Irvine provided the Esthar Intelligence Agency with the identity of their prime suspect—Janoah Wylie. He had known her and been her lover at one point. At his suggestion, Quistis got in contact with Martine. The former headmaster and garden-master had been useful in their search in those first few awful weeks after Laguna's funeral. He was glad to help, he said, as he had liked Laguna—like most people had. Now he poured his energy into the search for Janoah. As the year had progressed, more people came out of the woodwork to offer help to Quistis in the search for the sniper, each person having been the recipient of help from Laguna over the years. Those that had known him best simply smiled and shook their heads, sharing amused glances with one another as each person recounted their first meeting with Laguna. Quistis sometimes felt that he had transcended being a person and had transformed in these people's mind, into the rarest sort of hero: the unassuming soldier who distinguished himself not in battle but in the calm before and after. Quistis wondered if they'd ever catch Nazario or Janoah—every day brought new tidings and new rumours. Sometimes, it was hard to separate the rumours from the truth.

In the months after the wake, Headmaster Cid began another project—Esthar Garden. He said it was the very least he could do. Quistis was even more surprised when Cid announced the Headmistress—her old friend, Xu Yang. She was grateful to have another friend nearby.

**«----»•«---»**

Janoah Wylie stood ramrod straight, arms at her side as Tacito Nazario spoke.

"We must prove to the world that Trabia can stand on its own feet without assistance. By this time next year, Balamb Garden will fall, beginning with its Commander and his Sorceress. You see, my pet, Esthar and Garden grow too arrogant, and they need to be brought to heel. We forget the past, and blindly forge ahead, forgetting the sorrows that came with Adel and Ultimecia. To eradicate SeeD and the sorceress, we put in their place a sorcerer." Janoah gave a perfunctory nod, and he smiled, watching as his weapon in the war glowed. She was the perfect weapon; nobody suspected a beautiful woman to be so skilled in that ancient art of assassination. That had been why she'd been chosen as his vessel.

He gave her a pat on the shoulder, and moved past her into the hallway. Janoah relaxed slightly, her shoulders slumping. Reluctantly, she started tidying the room, bundling the papers into the bamboo cases on the desk. Janoah wondered how long the planning would go on—she was anxious to strike, as she detested SeeD and Esthar in general. It was to be a twofold strike—one at SeeD and a further attack on Esthar. She wondered, too, whether their efforts would work, or whether they would be forced out of hiding and into the open field. Her hands felt clammy as she pushed the cart into a more secure location. How could they go against the most technologically advanced country in the world without severe ramifications? She didn't voice her concerns—she knew he wouldn't listen.

**«----»•«---»**

Seifer's journey was almost over. He could see the pathways that lead into the city proper. Kicking his chocobo in the sides to hurry it, he leant over the bird's neck, urging it forwards, faster and faster. He would be home soon, a new gunblade forged and lessons learned. He wanted nothing more than to sweep Quistis into his arms and kiss her, but he also knew that it was more likely that she would shy away from him. The year he'd spent training with Gilgamesh had gone quickly, and he had learned more than he had bargained for. He was ready now to fight for Esthar, for the memory of the man who had given him a second chance in life—Laguna Loire. He tightened his hands on the reins, and steered his chocobo into the stables. Dismounting no longer hurt him—it had hurt when he began the journey, but now his body had adjusted to the pains. He handed the reins to the stableboy and strode determinedly out. It didn't take him long to reach her new quarters. They were easy enough to find.

She would be waiting for him, he was damn sure of it.

Quistis sat on the couch, a half-finished glass of red wine on the coffee table in front of her. Eyes rimmed with red, she dabbed at them with a tissue. The door opened, and she stiffened, hand reaching for the pistol behind her cushion. She had kept it there, just in case. Her eyes grew wide as she took in the long pair of legs clad in black denim and leaped up. She ran to him and kissed him.

He was home. "Where have you been?" she asked after a time had passed.

"I sought out a legend," was the answer.


	7. Chapter VII: Toils and Snares

**Air and Angels**

**By Dragonbait**

**Chapter Seven**

_Through many dangers toils and snares_

_I have already come_

_Twas grace that brought me safe thus far_

_And grace will lead me home_

- Amazing Grace; Traditional Arr.

**«-»•«-»**

Along the harbour at Fisherman's Horizon were men and women standing out on a quay waiting for a ship to come in. The ship was the White SeeD ship, with its elegant sails fluttering high in the wind. Ellone Loire watched as the ship pulled into the quay and the men and women hailed it. The long-awaited return of the White SeeD ship was cause for celebration—it usually carried with it the spoils of battle as well as valuable parts to be sold to the local vendors. It carried today in its hold several men who the world thought had vanished into quiet obscurity; today, they would be revealed as the heroes they truly were. Two of them were retired generals, one from Esthar, the other, Galbadia, a scientist who had worked on the original Deep Sea Excavation centre, and finally, a retired headmaster of Garden. The four men were thought of as the foremost experts in their fields, and it was rumoured that they were being brought in to assist Esthar in their war against Trabia. War was looking less and less like a rumour, and more like inevitability.

Ellone watched as the men emerged from the hold, and smiled as she recognised them—General Caraway had come out of retirement and had offered his expertise to Esthar, Major-General Carpus Zephyr had also come out of retirement to help. The two generals had once been on different sides but they were soldiers first and foremost; willing to put the past behind them and work together for the benefit of the greater good. They knew from experience that they would need all the help they could get in waging this war on a new front. Cid Kramer next stepped off the boat and onto the quay, his walking stick gripped tightly as he walked slowly towards Ellone. He, too, had come to help Esthar—Quistis had requested his aid and with a sad smile, he had responded. The last person to step off the boat was a tall and lanky man, badly scarred and missing an eye, dressed in a white trench coat with a dark grey cashmere sweater matched with black trousers.

"Dr Sigvard! Over here!" Ellone shouted, running towards him with a friendly smile. He returned her smile and nodded politely.

The other three men walked slowly towards Ellone, Headmaster Cid the last one to reach her. She thought the years had not been kind to him; he was arthritic and the lenses of his glasses had reached the thickness of vitamin bottles. To his side, Edea stood, dressed in her classic black dress, looking gaunt and pale. She had aged so much in the years since Ultimecia's defeat. Ellone was grateful that they had come. They would be transported from the White SeeD ship across into the waiting Ragnarok and then flown to Esthar. The White SeeD ship would remain behind, to refuel and stock up on necessities. Dr Sigvard slowly made his way to Ellone's side, and together, the six of them made their way to the Ragnarok.

A slight breeze blew the scent of the ocean up to them, and once again, Ellone smiled as the men slowly boarded the airship. Flying on the Ragnarok was the easiest thing for the group. A bittersweet smile crossed her face as she remembered Laguna's love of new things, and how he'd always wanted to fly in the Ragnarok. He had gotten his wish then, and she was grateful for that. It was hard; she missed her Uncle Laguna so much that every memory hurt. She knew the pain would dull one day, but not yet—not until he had been avenged. Her brand of magic was useless in these circumstances—she was no fighter, and that was what she needed to be.

**«-»•«-»**

His arms were wrapped securely around her as they drifted in and out of consciousness. They were, for a moment, just a man and a woman who loved one another instead of a president and her most trusted general. Seifer's promotion had surprised none in the six months since he had returned to Esthar. Since returning from Gilgamesh, Seifer had become a lot more focused, bringing his knowledge of warfare under a sorceress to the table. His new blade, forged by the greatest legendary swordsman Gilgamesh, had been used rarely. It wasn't bathed in the blood of innocents like Hyperion had been. He was glad of that. Seifer shifted slightly on the bed, looking up through the canopy to the ceiling above—painted with clouds and cherry blossoms to resemble a tranquil outside world. Suddenly, he hated the ceiling. It presented a lie, and he hated it. The days outside this room had been filled with tension, with anger, with worry and quiet despair filling what little moments of quiet and peace they had.

They were playing the waiting game with anxiety creeping slowly across the faces of the players. The waiting killed them slowly, consuming every happy thought with anxiety. Seifer wished it would start already, he was sick of the waiting. Their army had swelled in recent months, with every young person wanting to do their bit to protect their county. He snorted quietly at that. They were in for a rude awakening if they thought that war would bring them the glory they so desperately hoped for. It was a violent, brutal world out there in the trenches—amongst the slow decay of their comrades and the eradication of hope. He had seen it in the eyes of the young cadets in the army—some as young as fourteen. Seifer wished he could convince them of the futility of war, but knew they would not listen to his voice of wisdom. Quistis slept on, sleeping peacefully while she still could.

Her knight, her general, was her port in the storm. Her dreams were dark. She dreamed of losing Seifer, of losing Síla, of losing the war. Sometimes, in her dreams, she stood on the edge of a cliff, looking down over the gully below, willing herself to step over it. It would only take a step, and her pain would end. But she was stronger than that—her will to live overpowered her pain, and she stepped slowly away from the big monolith that invited her over the edge. Sometimes, Quistis wondered whether she was strong enough to do this—to fight this battle that was coming. It would not be an easy one to win—the unknown number of the Trabian army was something they would have to contend with when the time came. She felt Seifer shift his weight, and she opened her eyes. "What is it?" she asked sleepily, as she looked up into Seifer's worried face.

"Nothing," he lied smoothly. "Go back to sleep." Quistis did so, and Seifer slowly got up out of the bed and went to find some clean clothes. Dressing, Seifer headed down the corridor leading out of the residences and into the reception area of the palace. Glancing around the room, Seifer discovered the familiar high ruffled collar Odine wore. _What in Hyne's name is he doing here? What the fuck does he want? _he thought, irritation growing. He detested Odine; he blamed Odine for Junction Machine Ellone fucking his life up. If it wasn't for Odine, Seifer would never have become the puppet he had been to Ultimecia. "Odine," he growled, "What the hell do you want?" His hand went for his gunblade, but grasped at the air. "Come to pester Quistis again, you freak?"

Doctor Odine turned. "Zat is not why I am here," he said, visibly shaken by the vitriol in Seifer's tone. "I am here merely as an observer of what is to come." It was a lie, and they both knew it. Seifer desperately wanted to kill the scientist, to destroy Junction Machine Ellone; he wanted the man to know the pain and suffering he had endured thanks to that infernal machine! But he knew now that violence wouldn't solve his problems. "I am also here to inform you that the Ragnarok has landed."

Odine had seen the airship from his office, and knew what it meant. The scientist that came with them posed a threat to Odine, to his research and his peace. Odine knew Sigvard needed eliminating, if only because of what he knew. Dr Sigvard knew more than he did when it came to the workings of the Deep Sea Research Centre, knew what they had unearthed in their greedy quest as young men. Odine only hoped that Derek knew what he was doing, coming back to Esthar after so long.

Seifer glanced over at the little monitor which showed the Esthar Air Station. Six people were disembarking, and he recognised four of them. _Matron's come! _A slightly joyous expression crossed his face as he realised he had been given a chance to talk with her, to explain what had happened in that year that he had been with Gilgamesh. He felt, for the first time in months, hope. The others, he wasn't sure of. He'd probably seen photos of them, long ago—he was sure they were war heroes from the conflict that had claimed both his natural parents' lives. Seifer glared at Odine, daring the insidious little bastard to speak again. Seifer hated Odine, and in that moment, he could've killed him. He restrained himself with great effort, clenching his right fist again and again. As the six made their way down the concourse to the waiting hovercraft to take them to the presidential palace, Odine paled visibly, Seifer noticed.

"What? You're _afraid?_" It was a sardonic tone to his voice as Seifer observed the scientist. The man obviously didn't want these people here in Esthar; Seifer continued to observe, watching the monitor in his peripheral vision. He could only hope that whatever scared Odine was useful in the coming years.

**«-»•«-»**

Sculptor ran. The Shumi were going to war, for the first and last time in recent history. Little was known about why they were going to war, but Sculptor knew it had everything to do with the humans who thought they ruled the world. Humans were ignorant of the Shumi's true nature. They had in the past, gone to war. Thousands and thousands of years ago, Sculptor's memory told him, the Shumi had marched to their doom. They had been gods, when they were first in their infancy, and over time, they had stopped evolving into the creatures that protected the warriors in battle. For several thousand years, they had been there—waiting patiently until the world saw them as recluses, building their tranquil Shumi Village below the earth.

The early years of their long lives had been tumultuous, with the war against the first sorcerer, Hyne. The Shumi had learned then during that war that they could evolve into guardian spirits, but it took many lifetimes to do so. It had been a definite advantage to being such an advanced race. The first Shumi to evolve into a guardian spirit had taken on the name Alexander. It suited the Shumi who had evolved into Alexander—he had been a fierce warrior—for the name meant _man's defender_ in the old tongue. It was a fitting name.

The next two Shumi to evolve had been twins. Their bond was such that it couldn't be broken by any means—they were known as the Brothers, Sacred and Minotaur. They had fallen near the tomb at Galbadia, and had remained there, guarding the soldiers who had fought and died for their hill and glen, and had stood against a proud enemy. They had routed the enemy's offenses, throwing giant fistfuls of dirt and boulders, and tearing the ground up only to have it come crashing down against the enemy.

Sculptor wondered whether they would come again to fight. They had long denied that they were anything but a species that had a tranquil lifestyle far beneath the land the humans walked upon. Their Ultima draw point above the earth had made them a target, during Adel's reign. She had wanted control of the draw point, and they had refused, much to the disgust of Esthar's soldiers. Esthar's soldiers had killed numerous Shumi, including the majority of the females—who weren't distinguishable from the male Shumis. Now, Sculptor reflected on the irony that it was Esthar who called for aid, and they were there to answer. They would evolve soon. He knew that it was coming.

Their time for evolution was long overdue—staying trapped inside the shells of their mortal skins, they were not as glorious or as god-like as they needed to be. Who knew if they would be able to recall the ancient memories handed down through the generations, between father and son? Sculptor reached the house of the tribe's elder, taking no time to knock on the door.

"Sculptor," the great elder spoke warmly. "Come join us as we plot our course." Elder was the oldest of the Shumi tribe who had not yet taken up his higher plane of existence. The younger Shumi bowed, and joined Elder and several other Shumi. "We wonder if it is wise to go to war. Clearly, there is great need for us to evolve again, though what forms we take on are unknown." Several Shumi looked startled—and Sculptor wondered whether they were waking the sleeping giant.

In the end, they agreed to evolve as they felt they were needed. The Shumi, once a decision was made, would stick to it—even if it spelt their doom. With heavy hearts, they walked back to their homes, each to contemplate the decision of the council. Some would evolve only into Moombas, others, they were sure, would become great destructive forces in the wrong hands. It was only a matter of time before the Shumi's secret would be discovered. The Estharian scientists, who had built the Deep Sea Research Centre, had come close to discovering the true nature of the guardian forces. But they had been deceived.

**«-»•«-»**

Selphie Kinneas felt tired as she hefted herself up off the couch. Her ankles were swelling, and her back ached badly. Running after her two rambunctious sons was trouble enough without having to worry about the war that was on the horizon. Her beloved Trabia was going against all reason, all sensibilities, and she worried that this year's group of SeeDs would fall before they truly had a chance to live life to the fullest. Most of them were young—few were older than eighteen. They got younger every year, she observed. She had been seventeen the year they fought the Sorceress and won. It still didn't change the fact, she thought, that they appeared to get younger every year. She knew most of the students by name and by face. Trabia Garden was still a small institution, and Irvine ran several of the classes there—as did she. Trabia Garden, in the ten years since the last war, had expanded on their training credentials, adding many new courses to the curriculum.

She was not ignorant of the war that was coming. If anything, Selphie knew _too_ much about what was yet to come. They had seen it happen again and again—and Sir Laguna's death had changed her world permanently. Some would argue that her world had changed for the best—that the long reign of Laguna had been such an anomaly in a country that had been ruled for centuries by whatever power had managed to seize the throne. Selphie disagreed with that view. How could the world be better without one of the most known activists for peace in it? She wondered how the world could go on turning on its axis when there were so many changes—and not for the better. She had spent the last war fighting for a world where there would be no need for SeeD—though she herself had been one—and still was one. She saw in her sons the terrible idealism that would lead them to their deaths, and if her eldest boy was going to be as foolish as to join Trabia's fight with Esthar, she knew she would be the one to kill him. She stood firmly on the side of Esthar, and had long thought that the consul of her beloved homeland had gone mad in their lust for power and gold.

Such sad thoughts brought Selphie to where she stood now, hands on her hips as she glared ineffectually at her sons and husband. "What have I said about guns in the house?" she asked Irvine with a pointed glare at his newest addition to their large armoury. "You know I don't want our sons exposed to them."

Irvine grinned at his wife, ignoring her pointed glance for the moment. He wouldn't fight with her in front of his son. "Selphie, how long are we going to pretend that our boys are anything other than potential SeeD candidates? We were their age when we were first given our weapons and told how to use them." He held up a placating hand lest his diminutive wife, who looked gorgeous even when she looked as though she could murder him, explode before he could continue. "It's not my fault that our sons see them—they watch the SeeD cadets and ask me when their turn will come."

Her husband had an extremely valid point. She didn't want to lose any more of her loved ones, yet it was inevitable. They would all lose more people as the years went on, whether it was through sickness, natural causes or war. Selphie could only hope that it was natural causes—she didn't wish to think of war. Yet war was inevitable—there was no point denying that. Somewhere in the back of Selphie's mind, in her memories, she recalled the terror and heartbreak of the war she had fought in all those years ago. Their boys were only six and nine—and the one in the womb, Selphie hoped, would not be old enough to remember the coming war. Irvine was right, and she hated to admit it.

In such times, desperate measures were needed. Whether Selphie and Irvine, and their children survived, she knew that no matter how hard she tried to hold to what normalcy they had, it would be swept away by the currents of change. It frightened her; the thought of another war so soon after the fragile peace had been won just thirteen years earlier. It had been so fragile because of what it had cost the SeeDs involved—many had lost loved ones in the battle against Galbadia Garden, and while Selphie had long since forgiven Seifer's actions, it had hurt to bury so many of her friends. Now it seemed like they would be burying more.

**«-»•«-»**

"Hyne damn them all, I was told..." a drunken voice emanated from an Esthar pub. The man singing the song stood on the top of the bar, a beer in his hand. "We'd sail the seas for Trabian gold..." Others joined in the drunken angry warbling of the song, and the people who worked behind the bar looked at one another in confusion. They weren't sure what had prompted the angry song and the climbing up onto their bar, between the taps of beer, and the bar mats that ostensibly were designed to soak up any stray liquor.

"We'd fire no guns, shed no tears..." the crowd roared, "I'm a broken man on a Balamb pier, the last of Barrett's privateers!"

**«-»•«-»**

A/N: Sorry for the delay in the chapter. The name of the song is called _The Last of Barrett's Privateers, and can be found here: http:/youtube__.com/watch?v=dl-CfQvz21Y_ (_there's anti-American sentiment, but you'll see why I used it.) Obviously, I changed some of the words to reflect the world of Squall and co._


End file.
